


for all the things my hands have held

by novacorps



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Post-Season 2, Reunions, and then fun, bc this is a Messy Couple, emotional whiplash, except............not fun, hmm what else, matt's internal monologue which is akin to a v dramatic teenager bc he is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 04:31:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7670146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novacorps/pseuds/novacorps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elektra is supposed to be dead.</p><p>Evidently, that is not the case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for all the things my hands have held

I know that scent, Matt thinks at first, then doubles over, air knocked out of him, partially because of the fist currently in his chest, but mostly because–

Well, mostly because she’s supposed to be dead.

He can remember it too, every moment, so vividly it hurts sometimes (the way her fingers felt around his, shaking, slippery with blood and tears, “I know what it means now, to be good,” and Matt felt his heart break), but here she is, steel and red clothes and no heartbeat, no heartbeat at all, and Matt’s suddenly, absurdly thankful for the mask that covers his eyes, because he can feel the salt-sting of tears in his eyes.

He remembers he’s in a fight right about then, and twists, flipping over the head of one assailant to slam a roundhouse kick into the chest of another. He ducks one fist, gets hit by another, grunting in pain when he hits the ground _hard_. Matt kicks the legs out from underneath a ninja, cracks his baton over the head of the second, and shoves the last one off the top of the three story building. Then he turns around, to where she is.

So now, here he is, Elektra – _Elektra, Elektra_ – a rooftop away, a lifetime away. Her hair smells the same. But she has no heartbeat and that’s off. It’s off – she’s off, Matt realizes, but he takes a step towards her anyways.

“Elektra.” His voice is a lot more ragged than he meant it to be.

“Hello, Matthew,” she says. Her voice is monotonous. Even if she wasn’t wearing her mask, Matt’s sure there would be no teasing smirk on her face. It’s sobering, and Matt shakes away the relief and grief clawing their way up his chest, tries to hide the pain in his almost-broken voice, failing miserably, and says, “How?”

“How do you think Nobu survived?” she asks, and there it is, that half teasing, half playful tone, ghosting through her voice.

“The Hand.”

She nods. “The Hand.”

Matt wants to run his fingers through his hair, but he can’t, so he settles for clenching his fists as tight as he dares. “It’s really you, though, isn’t it?” He asks because he can’t trust his senses, not here, not now.

In answer, she steps towards him, feet hitting the earth the way they used to. There is nothing profoundly different in the way she walks. A blessing. One step, another, and now she’s standing right in front of him, the smell of her his world, the sound of her breathing so soft Matt can barely hear it. 

“Yes,” she says. Her voice is the same, it’s all the same, identical, and now Matt might begin to cry, feeling the salt-sting of tears gathering on his eyelashes.

But then, he remembers, still no heartbeat.

Elektra presses a hand to his chest, warm, would-be warm, if it were not for the suit. He places a hand on her cheek, brushing over her cheekbones, her jawline, the bridge of her nose. Reverent. His own Lazarus, risen from the dead, four months later instead of four days. The thought makes him want to cry all over again. The Hand, he reminds himself, the Hand.

“You work for the Hand now.” It isn’t a question.

“Actually,” Elektra says, “it’s more like they work for me.”

Matt laughs at that. He steps back, the inch of air between him and Elektra feeling like miles. He can’t stand this, the way their–their _this_ goes to anger at the drop of a hat.

“Is that how this works? You become their – what, their _myth_ ," and here Matt huffs, a single scoff of derision,  "and in exchange, you get to go out without your supervisors at night? I’m surprised they let you out at all, considering you’re meant to be their _figurehead._ ” It's harsh - too harsh, and Matt wants to take it back instantly, but Elektra's stepping back as well, anger in the tension of her muscles,  and Matt remembers that she always, always, gives as good as she gets.

“They understand me, Matthew,” Elektra snarls back. “They try to. I am the Black Sky. I am. It’s – it’s the only explanation for what I am, what I feel inside me all the time, you wouldn’t understand, how could you–” Her voice shakes. On anyone else it would be a crack, and she turns away suddenly, no longer able to meet Matt's eyes.

It’s her vulnerability that gets him, of course. It always manages to catch him off-guard somehow; it’s when she’s the most honest with him. Matt steps back towards her, catching her hand in his, pressing a hand to her cheek. He bends over and kisses her fingertips, as reverently as he can. Each finger results in a little catch of her breath. It's an apology as much as it's an expression of love. “Help me understand,” he murmurs. “Tell me. I made a promise to you. Wherever you go, I go. Remember?”

“I can’t, Matthew, I can’t, you don’t know what I’ve done since,” she says, so Matt pulls her into him, fingers tangled in her hair.

“I don’t care,” he breathes into her hair. “I don’t care, I don’t, not as long as you stay with me, alright, okay.” It’s desperation in its purest form, selfish, so selfish, but the only thing Matt knows in this world of superheroes and aliens and resurrections is that he cannot lose Elektra Natchios, not again, not ever again.

“Okay,” she whispers into his throat. “Okay.”

Her heartbeat thumps in his ears, _one two one two one two._

And just like that, it’s done. From love to hate to love again in the span of a few minutes. Maybe it’s just the emotional whiplash getting to Matt, but he grabs her hand again, kissing the center of her palm.

“You’re never going back again,” he says. “You never have to do anything for them again, not the Hand, not the Chaste, none of them.”

“Me and you against the world, Matthew?” She means to tease him, the watery, quavering lilt of her voice going for amused rather than desperate, but Matt’s serious when he replies, “Damn straight. Me and you, against the world.”

Elektra hesitates for one long moment, and then she laces her fingers through his.

“Alright,” she says.

It’s enough for now. 


End file.
